Cradle of Life

pollock1

Awake in the early hours, and laughing in the face of death. Blankets of shadows, so useless against the gaze of fate that comes creeping without delay. Time out of hand as we turn on our sides, we feel it calling. Despite every lover we ever held dear, it always reclaims what it gave. Existence so fleeting, it blinks us in and snuffs us out. With every tear we ever shed, and with every embrace we ever gave, there’s no stopping our return to darkness, and despite the passions we shared, we will always come undone. Perfectly still, the night is a womb. Something so wonderful, yet laced with death. Every time we taste the wonders of what we are, we slip a little more into the jaws of nothingness. The cradle of life, so ripe with decay. The meaning of two hearts, somehow together, yet somehow not. We’re bound by organic rules, yet in our minds, we’re free. Riddled by flesh, we fall so easily, yet behind closed eyes, we float forever. This is how we can cheat it. If we believe, then we can live forever. It’s not madness. It’s how we are. Fragments of maps, and the scent of forgotten perfume. Flames that ignite us- that bring us together like war. We break and shake with fear. We create to make a stand, and to save ourselves from oblivion, and underneath it all, we are everything.

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